


The Pitch

by EntreNous



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer RPF, Ghost of the Robot
Genre: Age Difference, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-25
Updated: 2004-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie wants to get a band together, but he's new to L.A.'s music scene.  Then he meets James Marsters, who has free time to jam and extra money that could go to stuff like recording.  Good thing James likes having Charlie around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> For kita0610, who kept asking when I was going to post this thing. Thanks to misanthrope7842 and mantypants for reading and discussing.

So Charlie looked at other guys sometimes. He looked at them at parties with mellow vibes when no one noticed him staring because everyone was so stoned. In high school he watched in locker rooms where everyone peered underneath a veneer of not-seeing, changing alongside each other, and showering quickly. Sometimes he checked out men’s magazines that were for straight guys but sure didn’t seem like it with the pictures of dudes working out and modeling boxer-briefs. He watched guys onstage at shows when he stood in the audience and seeing a band didn’t have to mean anything more than paying attention. When he played, he squinted past the lights to meet sets of eyes trained on him, and that was just connecting with the audience. 

None of that meant he was gay. He looked, but he’d never done anything with guys. For some reason the men who shot him glances and gave him soft smiles didn’t get that. Fuck if he knew exactly why, but seemed like it could be the hair. 

That time at the club in del Rio, the guy who’d come up behind him in the bathroom had reached for his hair first, trailing fingertips down to trace the sinews of his neck quicker than Charlie could turn. The guy had murmured something about the last stall, and Charlie had said “fuck that,” but it sounded waver-y, surprised and hesitant instead of pissed-off. The guy took a step back, hands held up like no harm done, but the half-smile on his face made Charlie grit his teeth for a string of nights. Just because he’d paused, looked back for a second, thought for a moment . . .

He’d had comments, sure. Hair worn long in high school didn’t necessarily mean anything, especially in California, but if some guy thought you looked too soft and pretty it could get you into some deep shit. Or, you know, if someone took it as a sign that you were flexible, willing, waiting -- not that Charlie was. So while it was bullshit that he couldn’t just have his hair long without some dude either giving him crap or looking him up and down slowly, he dealt. Serious pain in the ass, the jeers, the looks and the under-the-breath suggestions that sent shivers up his back, but fuck it, he looked how he wanted to look. 

Plus it seemed pointless to get rid of the look that got him other kinds of attention, good kinds. Like when he’d first met James.

* * *

The Sacramento music scene had rocked okay. Even so, L.A. was where contracts got signed and agents scouted clubs. He had been sick of living at home, bored with working in a men’s clothing warehouse, and restless to start recording material. Plus L.A. had another advantage because it featured a free place to stay. Steve had said more than once Charlie could hang out at his place whenever, however long he wanted. Privilege of family (even if Steve was his stepbrother) guaranteed an open door. Sure, Steve wasn’t hardcore into the band scene, not like Charlie wanted to be, but the movie scores he wrote and studio work he did meant connections if Charlie wanted them. He could meet people, get some tapes out, make contacts that way, and live a little larger without curfews and parental check-ins. 

So he’d brought the idea up, and Steve had said, sure, why not, we’ll move you in sometime. When Charlie said that now was good, Steve burst out laughing. It took two weeks of leaving messages every day before Steve finally showed, helped Charlie pack his entire room into the car, and drove both of them back to L.A. 

Steve gave him the spare bedroom, gave him his old Fender, and gave him free range. He seemed pleased Charlie was there in a vague way -- brought him around with him to parties and to the studio, though he mostly forgot about him once they got to those places. 

The first week or so at Steve’s, Charlie ended up going to Santa Monica and wandering, listening to street musicians or checking out listings at clubs for anyone looking for a lead guitarist. He’d had his own band before, but he kept thinking maybe it would be better to get into something already going. Besides, Steve kept saying it took money to keep a band together in L.A. And if he had money, he wouldn’t be crashing at his step-brother’s place.

But nothing worked out. Either the guys in the bands didn’t like the same music, or he didn’t like their lyrics, or they didn’t like his fucking _look_. After a month he’d just about given up. 

Then one night he was jamming with Steve when the phone rang. When the doorbell sounded off a moment later, Steve waved at him to answer, turning back to talk of scheduling sessions.

He’d never seen the guy at the door before -- not in person, anyway, but he knew who he was from the ads for the show. Couldn’t remember his name, but that wasn’t an issue because James introduced himself easily, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched forward. Charlie spared a thought for how he could tell this story -- “yeah, it’s cool, being at Steve’s -- people drop by all the time, like that vampire dude from _Buffy_ , James.”

“Right, James Marsters,” Charlie repeated the name and shrugged. “I’ve heard about your stuff. And Steve said you came ‘round here sometimes, so . . .”

Charlie headed into the kitchen to grab a Coke, and James followed even though he hadn’t been asked. “You filming something right now?” Charlie tossed out airily as he turned back to look at James. 

James appeared amused at this question. “No, we’re done for the season. So . . . you watch the show?”

“Here and there,” Charlie said carefully. Last thing he wanted to do was make the guy think he was a freaky obsessive fan. “Not that much. I’d recognize you, though.”

“Yeah?” James asked with a half smile.

“Well, it’s the hair,” Charlie explained, and watched James’ hand go self-consciously to his bleached head. He continued on in a could-care-less tone. “But the show, yeah. Sounds like a good deal. Cool to have a steady gig.”

When James laughed, he looked like he had just heard the funniest thing ever, but Charlie cocked his ear at the sound and heard the bitterness coloring the edges. “Yeah, well. Should run another season, at least. Have to see what happens.”

Charlie nodded wisely, and then wandered back into the room he’d started in. James went with him, not so much trailing at his heels though it might have looked that way if another guy had done it. More like ambled after him, like he was interested in what he saw and wanted to watch some more. 

That was fine, but Charlie wasn’t going to get all giddy and pay attention to James just because he was some kind of television guy who probably thought he was the shit. To make the point, he picked his guitar up again a little defiantly, banging out a chord or two while James stood there regarding him intently.

“Hey, you play too? Musical talent must run in the family.” 

“Yeah, I--”

When Charlie dropped his hands to gesture, letting the guitar hang from the strap, James picked one of his hands up. That startled him, but it wasn’t so odd -- people were always commenting on his long fingers, how they broadcasted musician status or just the ability to play instruments well. But James didn’t just give that casual, cursory touch. He examined Charlie’s fingers, stroked down his middle finger to his palm with light touches, and traced over the calluses in a way that made Charlie catch his breath. He stood for a second or two looking down at his hand in James’ hands, then realized he hadn’t answered. Faking a cough gave him a ready excuse to draw his hand back.

“Yeah, I play. I don’t know if it runs in the family. I mean, Steve’s my step-brother, so . . . But anyway. Self-taught,” he said clearly. 

“No kidding? That’s fantastic,” James said. When James’ eyes swept over him, appraising and measuring, Charlie flushed. 

Okay, so he knew that made him seem lame. He hadn’t wanted to get into some conversation with a guy who was going to blow him off once Steve got off the phone and he didn’t have to talk to the kid anymore. But James was so focused on Charlie, so intent on him that Charlie forgot about playing distant. 

“Yeah. I can play a bunch of instruments. Saxophone, clarinet, keyboards . . .” Belatedly, he turned the conversation back to his guest, who was eyeing Charlie’s fingers once again as Charlie half-consciously fretted over the neck of Steve’s Telecaster. “Uh . . . you play too?”

“You might call it that,” James said with a wide grin. “Yeah, I play some . . . I sit in with this band at a club in West Hollywood once in a while -- you and Steve should come sometime, check it out.”

“That’s cool . . . Steve’s kind of busy right now . . . but I could come whenever,” Charlie said, then cursed himself inwardly for sounding so eager. But fuck it, he didn’t really know anyone here yet, and so what if Steve’s friend was older -- he seemed okay, and probably he could meet other people at the gig. Maybe make some connections, “work the scene,” like Steve had told him about doing. “I might be sitting in on some things coming up,” he remarked, even though he had no such plans yet.

“Oh, great. I’d love to hear you play. You definitely seem like you have the stage presence.”

“Yeah?” Charlie tried to ask casually. Hard to keep the note of seeking reassurance out of his voice, though.

“Yeah,” James said with a grin, reaching his hand up once more, but this time to brush away a stray lock out of Charlie’s face. “It’s the hair.”

* * *

So Charlie went to hear James play at this knock-off English pub in LA. Surprisingly, he wasn’t half-bad. Definitely enthusiastic, even if Charlie’d heard better from the guys he’d been in bands with when he was still in high school. But Charlie missed jamming with his friends in Sacramento, and Steve traveled all the time. Wasn’t as cool as it sounded to have the place to himself, and so James having okay licks relieved him -- he could play with James just fine. 

Plus maybe playing with James could . . . develop. Like Steve said, it cost money to get a band together and keep it going here. And James had interest enough, talent enough, and from what Charlie had gotten from Steve, money enough to front a group. So hearing James play wasn’t just another night watching another random band belt it out, but about potential and strategy.

The crowd was okay, and he was fine sitting by himself for the whole first set. But then after James came over in the break and then left him to get another beer (and a Coke for Charlie), wouldn’t you know there had to be some guy who really didn’t want to leave Charlie alone. 

“I don’t think so,” Charlie said in a low voice. 

“Oh, come on,” the guy said with a grin. 

“Just . . . I’m with someone,” Charlie said by way of urging a quick exit.

“Who?” the guy asked, scanning around the bar.

“Not _that_ way,” Charlie added hastily. He noticed James threading his way back and tried to look calm, as if nothing was happening. That failed big time, obviously, because James’ jaw went tight when he saw the other guy hovering around Charlie. 

“Fuck off,” James said easily. The man took a long look at him and a quick measuring look at Charlie. 

“Not that way, huh?” the guy said sarcastically, and backed off. 

James watched him go then turned back to Charlie with a frown. “Hey, what the hell was his problem?”

“Nothing,” Charlie said hastily. 

James pushed the coke in front of Charlie, took a long drink of the beer, and was quiet for a moment. “Happen a lot?”

Charlie ran his finger around the rim of his glass and took a breath. “No, I . . . I mean, just some people can’t take a hint . . . _I’m_ not . . . ”

“Right,” James said after a pause. He set his beer down, pushed back in his chair, and looked over the crowd.

Charlie took a sip of soda and laughed a little for good measure. His skin pricked with the feeling that he’d done something off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Split second for a judgment call on what to fix -- did he sound like a homophobic asshole? Or was James weirded out that guys approached him sometimes? Maybe he seemed like a freak for reacting so seriously? “Besides . . .”

James turned back, eyebrow raised. “Besides?”

“The dude wasn’t even all that good looking,” Charlie finished. He grinned just to show he was joking. Mostly.

James smiled slowly. “Oh, absolutely. Nowhere near your league.”

“Sure, like I’m going to switch teams just for some random guy in a bar,” Charlie scoffed.

James laughed and slid his hand over Charlie’s, leaving it there for a moment. “Hey, thanks for coming out tonight.”

“No worries,” Charlie said. “Cool stuff. You look good up there -- you should play more in public, you know?”

“Yeah, would if I had a regular group of guys I played with,” James replied. He grinned at stretched, then got up with an apologetic look as he was waved over for the second set.   
Charlie tried not to look down at the table where his hand now lay without James’ on top of it. “You don’t have to stick around for this one, you know.”

“Yeah, guess I’ll take off,” Charlie said. He stood when James did, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to leave. Something in his head was saying he should follow up, not end the night like this with a random wave goodbye, but instead keep opportunities open. While he tried to decide on the best tactic, James suddenly half-grabbed him, slinging his arm over Charlie with ease. 

“You want to get together tomorrow? Play a little?”

“That sounds great,” Charlie said, his face lighting up with the first genuine smile he’d let himself show anyone since he’d come to town.

“Fantastic,” James said, pulling Charlie closer just for an instant and grinning. Then he took off, striding over to the stage while Charlie watched him.

* * *

One week, two weeks, and he was hanging with James most of the time. James had gone through some kind of break-up thing, and with the gap in filming he had lots of time on his hands. And Charlie had all the free time in the world to play with James. So they jammed for a while, and Charlie taught James some fingering, and James told him some hilarious stories about the other actors on the show. Some nights Steve came over and joined in, but he was busy mostly, and Charlie was more than glad to stick around for dinner, or to go to see other groups play in bars. 

The first time James sang for him he was surprised at how good his voice sounded. Not too strong, sure, and a little off-key sometimes, but a rich timbre, a nice buzz from his throat when he let his voice go a little choppy and wasn’t so worried about sounding pretty. 

It was enough to get Charlie thinking. It was enough for him to spend a few days considering how to talk to Steve about it. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to bring Steve’s attention to the fact that he was hanging with James a lot. Not that it meant anything freaky, but, well, it might not look that way to someone else. But Steve was the one who knew about opportunities and connections and developing contacts into something more, so Charlie kicked the idea around in his head, trying to get a casual proposal into shape for presentation. 

Around noon one day, Charlie was eating his second bowl of cereal and eyeing Steve as he drank a cup of coffee with bleary eyes. His parents would have been on his ass to quit lazing around and get a job if they’d seen him starting the day so late, but as Steve had just gotten up himself he was hardly about to give Charlie shit. 

“You know James can actually sing?” Charlie asked Steve casually.

“Yeah, he’s alright. I’ve heard him once or twice. You all been jamming a little?”

“Yeah, some. That’s . . . not a problem, right? We’re just getting together; it’s all music stuff, and you have a lot going on--” 

“Dude, it’s fine. Have fun, okay? I feel bad traveling so much with you here now, so I’m glad you’re hanging with him. And I totally trust James -- he’s a good guy for you to spend time with.”

“Nice to have someone to play with sometimes is all,” Charlie mumbled, staring into his bowl.

“Right on. And hey, maybe it can go further.”

Charlie looked up sharply. He was the one who was supposed to bring that up. “What do you mean?”

“Like . . . he digs the whole music scene thing, but he’s not really into it enough to do anything about it. But you know, if you wanted, you could see if he’s up for getting a group together, laying down some tracks at a studio.” Steve took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “He’s definitely got the money for recording.”

“That’s one thing I don’t have, the money,” Charlie observed, and Steve laughed.

“He likes you, I can tell.” 

Charlie took a moment to not respond to that.

“So go ahead and pitch the idea to him sometime. I mean, seems like you see him regularly enough, so it’s not so weird to bring it up. The timing is good -- I know his schedule’s a little more flexible right now. And hey, you might want to get your own thing going on soon.”

Charlie flinched a bit. Talking about getting “your own thing going on soon” was the closest Steve had come to saying that he better start up something _pronto_ , move on from the wandering around and watching television and teaching himself the mandolin. 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” he said, like this whole deal with James was off the cuff and not what he’d been obsessing about, waiting for the right moment to ask Steve what he thought. “Funny, I thought about asking him to play more, maybe get more guys involved. But . . . the money thing I hadn’t . . .”

“Got to work all the angles,” Steve said with a laugh, like they all knew the joke and he was letting Charlie in on it.

“All the angles. Right.” Charlie rolled his eyes a little to show that he got it.

“I mean it, Charlie,” Steve said seriously, and Charlie tried hard not to flush. “He likes you. He’s got the cash and the time, and . . . he’d think about it . . . if _you_ asked him.”

There was an awkward pause, until Charlie decided that Steve didn’t mean anything in particular when he kept saying how James liked him. “Yeah. I’ll toss the idea out.”

“Great,” Steve said. “If nothing else, it’s good to learn to make the pitch.”

* * *

Even with his own ideas of starting things up, and with Steve’s suggestions and seal of approval, Charlie kept the specific overtures about getting a band together on hold. He didn’t want to have it come out of left field, or for James to react oddly and get distant. 

After a while, though, Charlie started to feel more confident about it. It wasn’t something he could point out as concrete, but there’d been a kind of shift. Sure, all along they’d hung out and played, and practiced -- even scribbled out some lyrics and came up with melodies together. Time went on, and they’d watched movies and argued about what bands were better, ordered General Tsau’s Chicken and spare ribs late at night and laughed like morons at infomercials. But lately it seemed like James wanted him around for real. Not just casual, like, “oh look, you’re here.” Not an afterthought, like, “hey, I’m not doing anything else; want to bring your guitar over?” 

More like they were really friends now, like they were good friends. Close, the kind of friend you expect to see all the time, so much so that you feel out of sorts when you don’t. 

Then one night, after Steve had been out of town for a while and Charlie mentioned he wouldn’t be back for a week longer, James got him stoned. That wasn’t so weird -- he’d smoked with James and Steve a couple times before, but this was the first time they’d done it alone. Maybe it was also because Charlie had been sleeping on James’ couch the past few nights, and things felt pretty loose and cool between them. Not like he couldn’t stay at Steve’s place -- their place -- by himself, but James seemed glad that he was around, and when he bothered to think about it directly he realized that he didn’t want to take off. 

They were stretched out on James’ bed watching a movie about these dudes who get zapped with some electrical current that sends things into the past. And somehow Charlie ended up lying on James’ stomach as he blinked at the screen hanging on the wall. It was that languid high, the kind that made someone grab at his buddies and slump together on the floor with them in a heap, just letting the waves of sound and sense sweep over him. 

They both laughed at the inevitable high-speed car scene and applauded enthusiastically when something on the car went turbo and sent the fleeing teens ahead of the electrical current. Every hit as they passed back and forth got them to readjust a little here and there. Then suddenly Charlie wasn’t watching the movie anymore, and as he was thinking about how to talk to James about bands, money, recording, he turned his head along James’ stomach, like a cat rubbing his cheek against something he wanted to mark.

For a moment, he stopped. It was like he was watching himself and James, wide angle aerial shot, and fuck if this didn’t look like something more than two guys who were buddies. Then James’ hand came down to palm and massage his shoulders gently, and Charlie felt the surge of worry slough right off of him as he rubbed his cheek against James again.

The movie ended. Another one started. James’ t-shirt ended up getting hitched up a little, and neither of them bothered to pull it down. James slipped his hand under Charlie’s shirt, rubbing gently at the small of his back.

All that was fine, was nice, but it didn’t mean anything. Then all of a sudden it did.

There wasn’t a clear cut away, just Charlie moving up a bit, skimming his hand down James’ abdomen. Dream-like and hazy, he stroked at the line of fuzz from navel to waistband absently, back and forth, back and forth. 

James gave this little sigh after a while, and Charlie grinned to himself. He trailed his fingers along the muscles in James’ stomach, feeling comfortable and kind of happy and floaty. He squirmed a little, turning his head once more. This time he pressed a trail of kisses along James’ stomach.

When James shifted, Charlie shifted with him, somehow unsurprised to watch James’ hand unbutton his jeans at close range, the long fingers working languidly in front of Charlie’s face. 

Charlie blinked -- of course James didn’t wear underwear, that was a no-brainer if you were an actor who played the badass -- but it was unexpected all the same when James lifted his hips up a little with Charlie still resting on him and hey, he was getting an eyeful of another guy’s cock. 

Charlie counted himself normal-sized, as far as he could figure out, and James was bigger, but not too much. Charlie’d seen other guys’ dicks before -- hard not to with gym classes, a step-brother who wandered in and out of the bathroom naked, and yeah, maybe there had been a few guys’ skin magazines beyond the standard GQ article he’d taken a look at out of curiosity. But this was . . . James was . . . the best word his addled brain could produce was “pretty” and he reached towards it in a haze, more than anything just watching his hand as it wrapped around and slid up and down the length a few times.

“That’s it . . .” James said softly, encouragingly. 

Charlie grunted a little, concentrating, and loosened his grip to trace his fingers along the underside, up the prominent vein, down the seam of the sac underneath, through hair that was weirdly soft (conditioned? his mind suggested a little hysterically, and he wouldn’t put it past anyone in SoCal).

All the time James was stretching, pushing just a little into the touch, and when his hands crept down to tangle in Charlie’s hair, it surprised Charlie that that could feel so nice. No one ever really . . . he made out with girls before, and he did most of the stuff a guy was supposed to do with them, but no one stroked his hair since his mom used to when he was littler. Younger, he meant, and that was different from what was happening now. 

Because James’ long fingers moved through the strands reverently, fingertips massaging gently at the scalp, and then warm un-sweaty palms started to guide a little, gentle-like. 

For a second Charlie’s throat closed up because he clicked in to what James wanted him to do. Just for a moment, though, and then it seemed like he’d been expecting it all along. 

He shifted so that he was between James’ legs, one hand wrapped around the base of the cock that felt harder than his own did when he got a hard-on, and as a starter Charlie brushed his lips against the cock head and licked experimentally.

James laughed, but gently, and his voice floated down like it was coming from a million miles away. “So nice, Charlie . . . just do whatever you want, okay? Feels so good . . .”

Relief -- he could decide how far, how much, and that meant it was his to think about or ignore and call what he wanted. Relief -- he hadn’t fucked up by doing this, it was okay, just another thing among the weird things guy friends do when they’re high. Because James was his friend for sure, and he wouldn’t mess with Charlie’s head when friends didn’t do that. Relief -- he was doing a _good job_ , and that was a burden lifted. 

He regarded James’ cock thoughtfully, closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the saliva-wet head, backing up with a grin when James gasped. So he did it again.

Charlie was a natural at all kinds of things -- if you gave him a week or two with any instrument and he could play it, easy -- and odd, yeah, but the thought jumped to the forefront that this seemed part of convincing James. That he was a natural, that he did things like he was born to -- and a light flared in his head when he realized that James’ hands in his hair, his mouth closing over James’ cock, his breathing speeded up and harsh, felt like more than convincing. It felt like another part of the pitch. 

But he didn’t want it like that. Except that he wanted to be good, better, best, the best one James had . . . like what Steve always said with a smile when he introduced Charlie at parties, “the hardest working teenager in the rock biz”. He had talent, and he wanted it known, and from where he was at this didn’t seem _so_ different. 

So he took a breath and doubled down, made his lips into a tight ring like the girls in the porn flicks he watched, and eased it close down James’ dick. As he went lower he paused, swiped his tongue around just to try it, and pulled up. His lips came up farther than he’d meant, popping past the rim, but James groaned, so maybe that was a good thing. He pondered for a second, and yeah, pondering with dick in his mouth seemed surreal and hilarious all at once. 

He twisted lips a little around the head just to see what that was like. The fingers in his hair tightened, and he took that as approval, gripping with his mouth as he moved back down because that had to feel good. 

“Yeah . . . Charlie, just like that . . . ”

A weird flash of pride shot through him, and when James thrust up slightly Charlie pushed his hips down with one hand to keep him still. When James laughed out loud, Charlie laughed too, and he had to pull off or he’d have choked. But the laughing or the choking, whatever, put an extra edge on it, and when James spoke his voice sounded hoarse.

“Fuck, you’re good at this . . . doing such a good job, baby . . .”

Charlie leaned away from the action, chin in hand, looking up at James. He was lying stretched out contentedly, looking back. His hair had gotten messed up, who knew when, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy, crinkling at the edges with a smile. 

Charlie took a moment to think how un-weird it all was. James’ palm came down to cup his face, and Charlie leaned into the touch with his eyes closed, feeling dazed and sleepy and somehow taken-care of . . .

“C’mere,” James said with a sweet smile, and Charlie pulled himself up further. That’s when James kissed him. 

Not like that should have been a big deal -- with where his lips had been already -- but it was all the same. James’ mouth felt soft, softer than girls wearing chapstick or lip gloss, even, and he pushed against Charlie a little with an amused murmur as Charlie turned on his back and parted his lips for him. 

“Smooth,” James said softly, his hand massaging over Charlie’s jaw, and maybe that meant what he’d been doing to James or maybe it meant the kissing or maybe it just meant his face, which he hadn’t had to shave so far, and probably won’t ever have to much. Didn’t matter anyway, because James rolled on top of him, and Charlie could feel their erections meet, James’ cock bare, jeans bunching further down his thighs as he thrust against the hardness straining Charlie’s jeans. 

Even girls that were good at making out couldn’t compare to what James was doing, licking and biting and thrusting his tongue like he knew exactly where it was supposed to go. And the friction, James thrusting against him . . . Charlie panted when James moved away. Change of plans -- he was not in charge any more, it was not about him doing something with James mostly lying still -- but after a second’s panic he knew that this was better. 

“Feels good?” James asked in a soft voice, dream-like, and Charlie nodded feverishly. They were at the cusp of starting to come down, and he wanted more before that happened, before he had to stop and really think about it. James seemed to get that, because he slipped one hand down to unbutton Charlie’s jeans (Charlie wore boxers, hadn’t worn briefs in a couple of years -- he spared a moment to realize he was glad that James’ hand wasn’t going to meet BVDs). He slid his hand inside and Charlie’s eyes widened. James smiled at him, kindly, and the whole time his hand was working down up over Charlie’s dick, and Charlie kind of melted underneath him, watching the flash of blue as James’ eyelids fluttered. 

He thrust up helplessly, and James got a funny look on his face, staring at Charlie intently before he sat up all at once. One moment in which he thought he’d got it all wrong, but then James was kicking off his jeans, pulling his t-shirt up, and moving to pull down Charlie’s jeans and boxers as well. Charlie helped by pulling up his own t-shirt, and he heard some kind of approving noise as it went over his head. The moment he shrugged it off, James was on him, tongue flicking against a nipple. Charlie took a sharp breath, distracted by that new thing, but then he didn’t care because it sent tingles up and down his spine. 

“Pink,” he heard James murmur, and it didn’t and did make sense in that fuzzy space he inhabited. He brought his hands down to massage along James’ shoulders, humming a little when James switched over to the other nipple, and pushing up into the touch of that flickering tongue. 

Moments later, the pleasure blurred into something approaching discomfort as he squirmed, unsure whether he wanted the small bites James was making at his nipples to intensify or stop altogether. Charlie let out a cry, half-relief and half-disappointment as James moved up to run his tongue along his collarbone and then to suck along his adam’s apple. Then he cried out for a different reason, feeling James’ hard cock resting in the hollow where hip met thigh. 

Just for a moment he felt desperate for James to know this was the first time, that he’d never -- “James, I -- I haven’t . . .”

“Shhh, baby,” James cooed, realigning so that their erections lay against each other, and Charlie bit his lip in an effort to stay in control. “So sweet, lying there under me . . .” James thrust suddenly against him. “Fuck, baby, so hard for you . . .”

A bright burst of fear swirled together with arousal, making Charlie gasp sharply. Out of control now, totally given over to James arranging and orchestrating what would happen next. James might really fuck him, and Charlie’s chest tightened because he had no idea if he wanted to go that far. 

James must have caught something, blue eyes bright as he laid full length on top of him and kissed him. No less desire, no less urgency behind it, but slow, measured, in control if not calm. 

“Together, okay? Like this,” James whispered and Charlie nodded even though he didn’t get exactly what James meant. Then James lifted a little off him, pushing his cock forward along Charlie’s own and Charlie breathed out deeply as he got that this could be enough for now. 

When James’ fingers went around his, they squeezed hands in a point-counterpoint rhythm to the sinuous twists of James’ hips and the small erratic thrusts Charlie made against him like he just couldn’t hold back. His hands and wrists pinned to either side of his head, Charlie choked and cried out and rocked back into James as hard as he could manage. 

“Oh god,” Charlie panted out, and when he looked all he could see was James, flash of black eyelashes, flash of blue eyes, James, streak of white-blonde hair moving as James tossed his head back and James’ face went tight and then slack and James. And Charlie came. 

* * *

Charlie woke up with a start. None of the lying-in-each-other’s arms stuff, none of the blinking awake slowly while realizing the someone was watching him in a dreamy in-love way. There was a dip in the mattress, and Charlie realized that James was tying sneaker laces. When he stood, he was already dressed and looking apologetic and uncomfortable. 

Charlie sat up and clutched the sheets to himself like an idiot, feeling immediately exposed. A quick scan of the room didn’t offer up where his clothes had gone to, and with James standing in the doorway he couldn’t exactly bolt off in the direction of the bathroom to escape. “Hey,” he said finally.

“Hey. Just about to take off. Early thing with the personal trainer,” James said, a smile half-making it to his lips. “You can . . . feel free to hang out, or whatever . . . but I have a bunch of stuff to do today, so I won’t be back for a while. Maybe not ‘til tonight.”

“Right,” Charlie confirmed, as though he’d known this. He let the sheet drop to his lap and ran his fingers through his hair, trying for casual but knowing his face was turning red. 

“Look,” James said quietly. “Uh . . . what happened . . .”

Charlie couldn’t look at James. Not if he was going to say it shouldn’t have happened, not if he was going to tell Charlie they couldn’t hang out anymore, not if all of this had been for nothing.

“Probably for the best if --”

“Do you want to start a band?” Charlie asked abruptly.

James’ concerned face went blank for a moment before it shifted to surprise. “Do I want to what?”

“Start a band,” Charlie said more firmly. He met James’ gaze directly, then fell back onto the pillows. It took a second for him to come up with it, but after a moment’s thought he adopted a relaxed pose with his fingers laced behind his head. “I meant to ask you about it last night, since we’ve been coming up with all this material and playing together so much. I bet I could get us time in the studio easy, because they know I’m Steve’s brother. And I know some guys back in Sacramento, a drummer and a bassist, so the rhythm section’s taken care of for now.” He could feel his face was still red, but hey, there it was. The right time to make the pitch. 

“A band?” He could see James staring at him, utterly disarmed, so Charlie pressed on.

“Like I said, I meant to bring it up last night,” he remarked, letting himself glance around the room and inadvertently noticing his jeans balled up over near the closet. “But I guess I got, you know, distracted.” He gestured around the bed and grinned slightly.

“Yeah,” James said finally. He dropped the about-to-leave posture and sat down on the mattress. “You’re serious about this?”

“Sure,” Charlie said, like it should have been obvious all along.

“I’ll have to think about it,” James said. “You . . . ”

“Yeah, think about it,” Charlie said easily.

James got up as if in a daze and went back towards the doorway. “I . . . I still have to go.”

“Right, go,” Charlie said with a wave. He got out of bed, grabbed his jeans, and pulled them on, feeling James’ eyes watching him the entire time. 

“Maybe,” James offered. “If you think we’re good enough to really play onstage, to really get something going.”

“Yeah, I think we’re good enough,” Charlie said. When James nodded uncertainly he smiled. “Don’t worry, James. I’ll take care of everything.”


End file.
